


Expression and Investigation

by kurgaya



Series: Hallucinogenic Gentleman [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, Female Ichigo, Female Tōshirō
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” says Matsumoto, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “My captain’s a lesbian.”</p><p>“Um,” the substitute replies. “Was that a question or a statement?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expression and Investigation

**Author's Note:**

> When I don't force my muse to work on stories that need updating, stuff like this is the result.
> 
> I love it.
> 
> [ FANART!!!](http://amalli.tumblr.com/post/145410034566/so-a-few-weeks-ago-i-read-this-fantastic-series-on) by amalli over on tumblr. THANK YOU! :)

She hears the explosive short-temper and the stubborn impulsiveness before she lays eyes on the chilling beauty of the dragon-guarded barricade, but it is Tōshirō Hitsugaya’s courageous independence and the way she rolls her eyes as she hardly gives a fuck – rather than her exotic air – that Ichigo loves most about her.

The captain is attractive to gaze upon. (Of course she is; her hair’s a blizzard and her eyes are storms). Yet she wears her magnificence like a thousand knives and it strikes at the hungry and naïve with a lethal ferocity. Ichigo is wise to be wary of the heavy folds to Tōshirō’s uniform, for it was earned by hard-work and is worn with pride, and no man or woman has ever succeeded in tearing away the cloth to strip the achievements from her shoulders. The substitute fledgling can only hazard a guess about what the cool exterior buries. She hopes it is as soft and curvy and warm as the smile on Tōshirō’s face – the one she doesn’t intend to expose – as Matsumoto rambles on about ice cream and shoes and clothes and all the things people expect Tōshirō to like, but doesn’t. Ice cream is too sweet, high heels are impractical, and the only clothes she seems to own are those of her uniform, crisp and loved through necessity, rather than indulgence.

Training and paperwork are her primary pastimes. Family-orientated to the core, Ichigo takes it upon herself to encourage the captain to try new things, and she learns more about Tōshirō than she could have ever anticipated.

She gifts Tōshirō’s delicate, battle-weary hands with a carton of orange juice and expects a joke about her hair, but the sweating, dishevelled captain simply pauses her training and offers a note of gratitude.

(But it still takes five minutes for the function of the straw to be comprehended).

She offers her prized copy of Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’ with a cup of tea and fully excepts to never get it back, but a week later Tōshirō is stepping into her bedroom and begins an evening long conversation with ‘was Macbeth really the villain?’

(But they don’t quite get to the bottom of that).

She lobs a pillow across Inoue’s living room with a shout of ‘it’s called a _movie night_!’ and the over-exaggerated panda face plants itself in the captain’s oblivious expression with a terrible ‘THWUMP’ and rolls away with its eyes shining at the echoed gasps from the two human teenagers.

(But they still have their partly unwilling movie night).

She teams up with Matsumoto and drags Tōshirō along to McDonalds, and though she refuses to eat anything they wave under her nose, the grumbling captain does grudgingly sip a cappuccino until she notices that her hands won’t stop shaking from the caffeine rush.

(But Ichigo just laughs and thinks it’s worth it).

There is a cruelty to Tōshirō as well, one that Ichigo can understand. It’s an inferno hidden down – _down_ underneath the tundra of the captain’s core, but it sparks and flickers occasionally, fuelling the venom on her tongue and the grievous hatred to her command as Hyorinmaru soars into battle. Ichigo feels terror when the frozen daggers of Tōshirō’s reiatsu slice across her arms, but only because she knows that in her own core she has the same merciless violence. She strives to prevent Tōshirō’s consumption at all costs – at any cost – and throws herself into the battle after her. Zangetsu and Hyorinmaru howl together, and though she cannot be certain, Ichigo thinks that supporting the twisted form of the frozen bankai and gathering up the scraps of the bloodied haori is the moment she falls in love. Bloodless faces swam the Seireitei streets like a plague and the sky cries with sorrow and relief for the shinigami scrambling about the wreckage, but Ichigo only has eyes for the remains of the bravery she scoops into her arms. Tōshirō’s rounded jaw twitches as her shattered head rolls into the substitute’s chest, but Ichigo still marvels at the beauty of her skin despite the blood gluing it into shape.

It sounds silly.

What sort of decent person falls in love while frantically trying to hold the pieces of their friend together?

After reaching the capable Fourth Division and tearing herself from Tōshirō’s side, Ichigo grabs the last ounce of her sense and runs to her best friend for advice. Though nursing a broken wrist, Rukia takes one look at the mortified expression burning through the tousle of Ichigo’s complexion and hauls her ginger friend into the depths of the Kuchiki manor.

When they return to the insanity of civilisation, Matsumoto is waiting at the manor’s doorsteps.

“Oh god,” breathes Ichigo, her reiryoku tightening as she braces herself for the worst. Yet ( _thankfully_ ) the lieutenant grins in assurance and sends a message to Rukia through a meaningful wink. Ichigo completely misses the exchange as her reiryoku reaches out for Tōshirō’s, but dutifully follows the lieutenant when beckoned.

“So,” says Matsumoto, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. Ichigo holds her hands at her sides stiffly as she walks, wishing fleetingly for an attractive figure so to entice Tōshirō to even remotely consider the scruffy mess that she is. “My captain’s a lesbian.”

Ichigo will never admit that her swelling heart stops for an eternity.

“Um,” the substitute replies, gauging any changes to the lieutenant’s buoyant expression. Her hands clamber into her pockets for reassurance. “Was that a question or a statement?”

Later, when she’s perched at Tōshirō’s bedside picking restlessly at her nails, she recognises the lieutenant’s words for what they are.

“Thank you Kurosaki-san,” says Tōshirō, and though there are heavy shadows under her eyes, her skin is three shades paler than it should be, and the pin her hair accessorises when storming into battle has unwound and is spilling over the bed sheets, a distant affection weights her voice. For all her inspiring intellect her marine eyes fail to perceive the larger, tanned hand that moves to rest at the foot of the bed, but her expression startles at the smile on Ichigo’s lips. White eyebrows dip in thought but she is tired, and Ichigo notices the moment the prodigy’s complex mind abandons the idea of unravelling the fiery anomaly of the woman before it.

“It’s alright, I’m happy to help,” Ichigo says lightly, shrugging the worries off her shoulders. There is a time and a place for pondering the question of love. “If you promise not to fall asleep, I can go and make you some tea? Dad knows to keep the kitchen fully stocked – guess it comes with having three daughters who all use it to solve their problems?”

Her rambling prompts a chime of laughter from the battered captain. Ichigo feels herself blush. She dreadfully wishes to play with her hair for comfort but _oh_ – if only she hadn’t decided to cut it short. (It suits her appearance better, but clearly not her needs). Maybe she should grow it back so she could gag herself with it whenever she feels the desire to blurt out her irrepressible thoughts.

“Thank you,” the captain murmurs, as if screaming, rather than the unfathomable compassion to her nature, has broken her voice. Ichigo has a feeling Tōshirō isn’t thanking her for the offer of tea, but to escape the embarrassment that’s tumbling out of her lips she dashes off to locate the nearest kitchen. It takes her an appalling twenty minutes to find something that even looks like a kettle, so by the time she shuffles back into the medical quarters where Tōshirō is staying, Ichigo fully expects to either be scolded or snored at. Instead, she hands over a mediocre cup of tea to the awaiting captain, and curses at the last second as she realises that Tōshirō’s right hand is thoroughly bandaged and immobile.

Tōshirō pays her injury no mind and sips the drink. Ichigo is acutely aware that the tea is watery, lukewarm at best, and tastes bitter and old, but nothing is said. Uncounted minutes pass before Tōshirō’s eyes drop and she slumps forward a fraction from where she’s cautiously propped up. Blinding panic rips through Ichigo. Forcing her heart to steady, she rationalises that Tōshirō is probably just extremely tired (and not poisoned from the drink), so she pries the cup from the cold, bony fingers and chews her lip as the captain does little more than blink dozily at her hands.

If fulfilling a promise to stay awake despite having just been torn from battle and hastily healed to exhaustion isn’t a display of pure affection then Ichigo will –

– do nothing, because it isn’t her place to project her adoration and fantasies onto an unsuspecting (ex) human being whose right it was to make her own choices about the woman she wants to spend the rest of her thousand year life with.

Swishing the tea around the cup, Ichigo ponders plastering ‘PICK ME’ onto her forehead in a neon pink sharpie.

She drinks the rest of the tea.

What she hates most about Tōshirō Hitsugaya is her habit of bottling things up. The empathetic part of Ichigo whispers that she has no right to get irritated over such an aspect of Tōshirō’s personality when she is equally guilty of personifying a bomb and ticking until she explodes, but the majority of her frantically argues that the destruction her temper causes is nothing in comparison to that of the Tenth Division captain’s. She has heard officers muttering about the ruthlessness and ferocity of Tōshirō’s temper, and while Ichigo has to wholly agree that Tōshirō is not a woman you would want to meet in a dark alley, it unconsciously becomes her job to silence any of the more _unsavoury_ comments that she hears.

If Tōshirō notices that her reputation is gradually polished then she gives Ichigo no indication. It would be a show of weakness in a patriarchal society to admit that one is bothered by the lowly rumours of the abhorrent, after all, which is why Ichigo continues to glare and growl and stamp out the chauvinist nonsense without being prompted.

Then one of the Ninth Division officers is stupid enough to voice a sleazy comment about Ichigo within earshot of the Tenth and Thirteenth Division captains. Tōshirō reacts like lightning and has the man frozen into the ground before Ichigo even considers pummelling somebody’s brains out herself. Ukitake makes an offended noise but remains where he is: there is no reason for him to even lift a finger as Tōshirō strides back over and resumes conversing about the recent captain’s meeting, as if she _hadn’t_ just condemned an officer to a long-stay check-in at the Fourth Division.

Ichigo is ninety-nine per cent certain that she is gaping openly.

It is the furious light to Tōshirō’s eyes, rather than Ukitake’s welcoming wave, that encourages her to tag along with their afternoon stroll.

They do not talk about their exchange in the Fourth Division. Tōshirō scarcely feels the need to bring up most things that have passed, and for once Ichigo is grateful. Though she yearns to gaze upon the haori-less shoulders at dawn, play with the wintry locks of hair throughout the afternoon, and kiss the unblemished skin goodnight, she does not want overstep her boundaries. Everything about her is reckless except the state of her heart – it is a large, loving thing, but as vulnerable as an open flame in the blistering winter winds. On her sleeve she cannot protect it; Tōshirō has hers locked away by an artic fortification and guarded by a wise, almighty dragon. Ichigo fears that if she unpins her own it will be snatched away by the gales, so she duck tapes it to her soul and lets it cherish and cheer and adore, but never to be loved in return.

Unless what Matsumoto said has any merit.

But though Ichigo is frequently informed that she is wildness personified, she’s not a complete imbecile. Throwing her emotions into an unpredictable situation is the last thing she wants to do – especially when somebody as striking and ambiguous as Tōshirō is involved. For her own sake, and for Tōshirō’s, Ichigo keeps quiet and gives her heart and mind time to align into a conclusive constellation. She forces her impatience to wait; her short-temper to observe. The fluttering, pulsing ache in her chest is satisfied with thoughts, hopes, and dirty fantasies she knows she should feel abashed for conjuring. Yet she cannot bring herself to feel ashamed for loving Tōshirō Hitsugaya. In society’s view it is bad enough she is happy to identify as a homosexual – what difference does whose eyes, smile, character, and figure she yearns for have on the wickedness she has already committed?

(In saying that, she has absolutely no clue what the fun-sized firecracker of a captain is hiding under the infinite layers of her uniform which _infuriates_ her to no end).

(And yes, Ichigo is aware what consequences the ‘fun-sized’ comment would result in).

(She laughs and prays she’ll have the opportunity to say it to Tōshirō’s face).

(Preferably during sex, because that would quite frankly be awesome).

“Sometimes,” hums Tōshirō, months upon months later, and Ichigo is encouraged to glance up from the disaster she has made of the paperwork she asked to help with. “I wonder if I would be treated any differently as a man.”

The captain doesn’t deter her eyes from whatever tranquil scene she is observing through the office window, so Ichigo hesitates in offering her opinion. To her surprise, she feels as if Tōshirō wouldn’t be treated too differently if her sex were reversed. Men and women alike would still marvel at her (…him?), fear her, and be inspired by her, and she would no doubt still be the captain standing to the side of the room muttering profanities and sarcastic comments under her breath at the stupidity of her companions. Matsumoto would still hug her excessively and drag her reluctant feet through the shops. Ukitake would still invite her around for tea and cake in the early afternoon and gift her sweets that he knows she won’t ever eat. Ichigo would still love her for her loyalty and her morality, and still despise her low sense of worth and self-preservation.

It’s possible a male Tōshirō Hitsugaya would be more confident; more comfortable in his skin. Icy temperaments are scorned no matter what sex has them festering inside, but society places polar expectations on its men and women. Ichigo knows that there is a hesitation that restrains her friend’s behaviour for it restricts her own; makes her doubt before drawing her blade in a training room; makes her question before agreeing to a drink. But overall she is happy to be female – men are of a simple, complex species – and she would never wish either herself or the undersized captain to change.

Eventually the teenage substitute unclamps the biro from between her teeth and almost kicks over the mug on the coffee table as she crosses her legs.

“Well,” Ichigo begins, revealing nothing about her true opinions. “I imagine sex would be different.”

It is a rapid, subtle movement almost too fast for the hazelnut of Ichigo’s eyes to perceive, but amusement shines its way into Tōshirō’s smooth expression. Ichigo beams so brightly that the captain’s gaze is attracted towards her, lips pressed together as if she is fighting back the sound of her delight.

“Perhaps I’d be taller,” says Tōshirō wistfully.

Ichigo is powerless to withhold the deafening laughter that rushes out of her mouth.

The captain’s glower only makes her laugh until she can’t breathe, and then she’s on the floor paperwork and all, coffee mug tottering on the edge of the desk, and when she tries to gather up her dignity she snorts loud enough to frighten herself into head-butting the table.

“Christ,” mumbles the other from across the room. Ichigo feels a flood of humiliation. She contemplates hiding under the table for the rest of her days seconds before Tōshirō starts to echo her laughter. It is soft at first, as if her throat is unprepared to emit such a sound, but then it resounds around the confines of the office like a songbird fluttering in a cage. The shame Ichigo feels mellows into a rosy syrup of desire on her cheeks. From her twisted, unflattering position on her floor she tilts her head back, disregarding the dizziness to marvel at the upside-down epitome of wonder struggling to breathe from behind the desk. Tōshirō notices her stare with a start but does nothing to reprimand it as the ginger teenager grins, and Ichigo silently counts that as a victory.

“You look like an Akita,” remarks the ice wielder once she finds cool relief within her lungs.

“I prefer Labradors actually,” Ichigo admits, not that the information is of any relevance or importance to her metaphoric ability to portray herself as a dog. “They’re a bit dopier.”

Cue an unimpressed roll of the eyes atop the characteristic smirk. “You’re not dopey.”

 _I am around you_ , thinks the substitute, and she speculates if the thought had materialised into a flashing, neon advertisement when Tōshirō’s merry countenance acquires a smooth, pensive edge.

Something changes after that.

Oblivious to the alternation at first, it isn’t until Ikkaku and Renji emit identical roars of disbelief when she strides into the Eleventh Division’s main training hall that Ichigo comprehends that her routine has instinctively modified to fit itself around Tōshirō’s. The rowdy Sixth Division lieutenant complains that she’s been neglecting their weekly sparring session – which is true, Ichigo notes with an uncomfortable laugh – but she cannot quite force the motive behind her behaviour out of her mouth. Neither of the adrenalised men care for excuses and so she doesn’t have any obligation to explain, yet she shrugs and mumbles something about the ‘Tenth Division’ and ‘training’ and ‘paperwork’ (and hates that she’s equivocating).

Instantly she wishes she hadn’t when Yumichika – the perceptive devil – hums from the doorway, the vibrations of his throat a knowing titter. Returning to their spar Ikkaku and Renji clearly have no idea of what Ichigo has implied, but if Yumichika’s wink isn’t enough of a clue that his intelligence blatantly outshines the other occupants of the room, he lays a hand on her arm after training and says;

“Captain Hitsugaya is fond of puzzles, if you were wondering on how to go about displaying your affections.”

Ichigo immediately denies she was ever considering such a thing. Yumichika completely ignores her.

“There is a man out in the West Rukongai who designs some rather delightful secret boxes,” he continues, turning her roughly scratched hands between the perfection of his own. A tingling sensation rushes across her skin and the officer explains with a stern glare; “A modified tracking device so you’ll find him. Perfectly safe – I use it on Ikkaku all of the time, not that he has any idea.”

‘Tell him and I’ll rip your throat out’ adds the smile. Ichigo nods her silence frantically, and when she slips out of the hall Yumichika’s smile brightens into a friendly farewell. She supposes it is meant to reassure her, but she has never quite grasped the ability to distinguish between his enchantment and ferocity.

At least Tōshirō’s is simple in that sense. Her fierceness has two distinct levels, both of which Ichigo has witnessed for herself. The buildings tremble under the power of Tōshirō’s white hot anger, but fortified under the frequent quakes they remain standing and firm in the face of her wrath. Yet the very skies themselves quiver when she is _livid_. Her temper is quiet and solemn, like the soundless destruction of fallen snow. Nothing escapes her fury. Nothing ever will.

Ichigo has only ever seen hints of the beast that dwells inside the captain. Hyorinmaru is frequent, a deafening vehemence sleeping under the surface of a doll’s gentle perfection, but there is something else locked deep beneath his territory. It is sinister and it is cold. When it claws its way out of the soul that confines it, crystal fractures gouge across the shallow of Tōshirō’s complexion. In the silence she has condemned herself with she seems to crack and splinter. Yet she holds it in and she waits – and she waits – and she waits.

And then she strikes.

(A five second winter consumed the Seireitei).

(Those who looked into the eyes of the dragon fled with their hearts turned to stone).

The vendor deep in West Rukongai throws back the coins Ichigo presents and refuses to trade. Yumichika had not warned her that districts govern and control their own currency; she flounders, uncertain what to do. But adamant to return with the treasure she desires, the substitute offers the scarce kido knowledge she knows and wards the owner’s possessions from maleficent intent. Pleased is an understatement of his expression, so he gives Ichigo what she wants before hurriedly investigating the security of his work.

She has absolutely no idea if her kido will hold, but she refrains from mentioning that before pulling the dusty cloak back over her head and shunpoing away.

Two weeks pass before Ichigo plucks up the courage to give Tōshirō the puzzle box. In her defence it takes her a week to finally decide on what to stash _inside_ the box that will both blatantly admit her fondness and be uncharacteristically subtle about it. Inspiration strikes when she tries to set up the locking mechanism and jabs her finger into a secret compartment imbedded in the puzzle’s lid. She hisses about it being ‘a silly place to hide something,’ but the tiny folded piece of paper is still slotted into the expanse and cautiously covered back up again with the hopes that it will be discovered.

The handwritten note of Romeo’s famous monologue from Act Two is the real gift, but Ichigo lays a pair of delicately simple silver hair pins into the puzzle box because Tōshirō deserves to be spoiled.

She locks her embodied desire into the puzzle, treks around the Tenth Division office three times to find a place to leave it, and holds her breath.

Her innocent façade is challenging to uphold at first. Raised an moral young woman she struggles to paint such a grand lie across her face, but when Tōshirō – intelligent, insightful Tōshirō – continuously offers no hint at even receiving the box (though it is gone from her desk), the lie becomes as easy as breathing. The guilt settles down eventually – hope follows soon after that. Interactions in the Tenth Division remain as they always were and Ichigo begins to doubt. Yet she has no way of finding out what has gone wrong without revealing her role (did someone else take the box? Has it been lost? Has Tōshirō been unsuccessful in opening it? Or was it easy and she’s simply not interested?) Any of these possibilities could be true, but no matter how much self-pity and doubt threatens to swallow her glimmering affections, Ichigo cannot bring herself to confront the captain about it directly.

If Tōshirō truly doesn’t return her sentiments, then confining her solemn to herself will be less humiliating for them both.

Three months pass.

“ _Dad_ ,” she stresses, pushing futilely at the bearded oaf sobbing into her shoulder. The unwashed dishes in the sink behind her plead for redemption, but there is little Ichigo can do with her father clinging onto the folds of her dress. “You’re going to have to let me go sometime.”

This only makes Isshin cry even harder – real tears, and she does feel guilty – so she sucks it up and starts to stroke his hair. He wheezes something between his babbles and Ichigo huffs, spying two sets of teenage eyes peering around the doorframe across the room.

“Oh for god’s sake,” she mumbles, but it is half-hearted as she beckons her sisters over. It is definitely Yuzu who squeals as they crash into the group hug; though with the sounds Isshin is blubbering Ichigo can only guess. She had expected such a response from her family at her announcement that she’s planning to move out, but it still amazes and warms her all the same.

“I’m not going _yet_ ,” she repeats, still patting her father awkwardly. “But I’m going to be twenty soon and I’ve been saving up to rent an apartment, you know I have.”

While her friends and family had been surprised at her decision not to continue her education on into university after graduating from Karakura high, they had never pestered her to do anything she didn’t want to. Ichigo had been planning on becoming a doctor like her father, but the whole fiasco with Soul Society had prompted her to think of a quieter, less stressful life while she was still alive. Travelling was a dream of hers that she intended to fulfil, and she finally has enough money to take the first step out of the front door.

“I’ll visit, obviously. And Soul Society can’t get rid of me that easily. You’ll all be wishing that I would _stay away_ by the end of the first month, you’ll see.”

One of the twins snorts a laugh. Isshin hiccups and starts to wail about his ‘baby girl being all grown up.’ He doesn’t leap over towards the poster of his wife though, so Ichigo grudgingly lets him cling onto her for a little while longer, just to make sure he’s okay. When she finally manages to untangle herself from the loving arms of her family, she pacifies the situation by handing out overflowing bowls of ice cream doused into chocolate sauce.

It’s only a temporary fix, but it allows her to escape upstairs before the warm feeling she is enveloped with brings her to tears. A strange mix of delight and sorrow, Ichigo reverts back to her evening routine with reluctant, sluggish feet. Her mobile is checked, the laptop is switched on, and because it is a pleasant spring evening, she forces open the window and almost knocks Tōshirō Hitsugaya off the roof.

“ _Jesus Christ_!” Ichigo shouts, twisting so that she can see the sheepish flutter to the shinigami’s expression. A flock of birds in the distance scramble away in terror. “Haven’t you ever heard of using the front door? How long have you been up there?”

Tōshirō slips in, making no sound as she glides through the curtains. Her eyes are that of startled deers’ and it is the most vulnerable and hilarious expression Ichigo has ever seen on her face. Instead of laughing, the substitute flops down onto her desk chair and has spun the expanse of her room before she recalls that Tōshirō has no reason to randomly turn up at her house unless –

“Oh bollocks,” she babbles.

The captain brightens in amusement at her vulgarity. The light of her smile seems to catch on the elegance of the two silver hairpins tucked up behind her ear.

Ichigo wonders what incriminating look is plastered across her face as Tōshirō pulls a little piece of paper out of her sleeve and unfolds the substitute’s handwriting.

“I take it I’m Romeo in this situation?” the captain asks, as if she needs confirmation after stepping in through the basis of the joke Ichigo had written for her.

The teenager nods gingerly and rushes to explain; “I wasn’t likening our relationship to Romeo and Juliet by the way - I mean, I kind of was, but only in the sense that you have a thing for making me lean out of the window to talk to you because you can’t be bothered to use the front door. You’re not a sixteen-ish love-struck utter _moron_ or anything and if anyone referred to me as ‘Juliet’ I’d punch them in the face so…”

The rambling trails off. They both glance down at the Shakespearean monologue between them.

“You’re wearing a dress,” Tōshirō blurts.

“I _can_ be a girl you know,” replies Ichigo, for the lack of anything more profound to say.

She hesitates, and then continues;

“You’re wearing the hairpins.”

Tōshirō blinks and then straightens, seeming to achieve some sense of rationality. “I have been known to reveal some femininity from time to time,” she says, which means she has just basically reworded Ichigo’s blubbering string of words into an articulate form more reflective of her aptitude.

“I’d like to see some more,” says Ichigo, since she clearly has no tact.

Tōshirō laughs.

Ichigo kisses her.

The smile is a promising sign.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, so much for another drabble...
> 
> I think I've just fallen in love with Ichigo/Toshiro in a whole new way, okay? :3
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it!


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